


Dystangle

by dynamicsymmetry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A soulless Sam wants a little simple entertainment. Of course, nothing is really simple when it comes to Dean. Even if Dean isn't technically there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dystangle

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during the downtime between the end of S5 and the beginning of S6. Note that this is really only Sam/Dean of the most conceptual kind. I still think it totally counts. 
> 
> Trigger warning for references to drug use and vague references to torture.

Sam wants. Sam fucking _takes._ It’s simple and these days Sam is a big goddamn fan of simple. The edges of knives, bullets, fire and salt--these are simple things and the jobs go a hell of a lot faster when he can avoid all those messy old complications that he seemed to have a gift for before the Cage.  
  
Dean is a big fucking complication. Now Dean is gone. That makes everything simpler and that should be something Sam is all the fuck about, but that also doesn’t really explain why sometimes Sam finds himself in bars after a job’s gone done and clean, smoke still in his nose, salt under his fingernails, blood in his mouth, and he’s looking at the faces, the eyes, the mouths. He wants something.  
  
He wants. He takes. Simple. He’s not going to look too hard at what or why. This is fucking system maintenance. Pretty boys with green eyes and pouting cocksucker lips make the whole thing run that much smoother.  
  
He remembers when he first realized he wanted to fuck his brother. He remembers realizing that the revelation came at the exact right time: no angst, no worry. He wants to fuck his brother. No big deal. He wants a lot of things and this is just one more of them, and it’s not like he’s _going_ to, and it’s not like he wants more than that. Dean’s body, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s perfect fucking ass, and how it would feel to hold down that tightly muscled body and pound both its holes until Dean is limp and gasping and slick with come, sweat, spit, whatever else Sam feels like tossing into the mix.  
  
Wanting that isn’t complicated.  
  
He narrows his eyes in the bar’s dimness and feels twenty sets of eyes narrowing back. Old pre-Hell Sam hunched when he walked into a room; old pre-Hell Sam knew his size and knew too many people registered it as a threat.  
 _  
Yeah, I’m a threat. Fuck you or fuck you up; not a lot of difference in the end. Either way I get off._ This is what he sends into that stale, smoky air. He casts it out like a baited line. He waits by the bar, listening to the rhythm of his own breathing over the jukebox’s pound.  
  
By the end of the evening he’s hooked not one fish but two. Practically drags them back to the motel by their dicks. Perfect eyes, perfect mouths, perfect compact bodies. Or close enough. Simple.  
  
This could be freedom. He likes to think that just as he’s coming. It’s like jumping off something high and noticing every detail all the way down.

 

* * *

  
  
He’s wedged himself between them, two smaller bodies against his, and they’re grinding and it’s so good in a distant, abstract kind of way. One of them is shirtless and practically fucking draped over his back, whispering filthy nonsense into his ear on pulses of hot breath-- _fuck yeah gonna take that massive fucking cock in my tight ass can’t fucking wait for you to pound it all into me split me in fucking two_ \--and that’s nice enough if he’s honest but Sam is more focused on the one he can see. That one--plastered against Sam’s chest and loose with liquor and the coke he’s just snorted up his pretty nose--he’s still dressed but he’s a whole lot more interesting.  
  
It’s the little noises he’s making, Sam thinks as he rolls his hips slowly forward, fingers in the guy’s beltloops and holding them close. Those little whines and whimpers as their dicks rub together through denim and cotton. Helpless, needy little sounds. Not like the bad porn dirty talk the one at Sam’s back is breathing into his ear. These sounds are all honest, all real, all desperate _oh god just fuck me_ sounds.  
  
And he likes to think about Dean making these noises. Likes to think he would. Likes to think that Sam could manhandle down all his walls and his protests, pin him and come at him from every possible angle until he’s begging for it. Begging to be fucked by his little brother.  
  
“You’re a slut,” Sam observes, and the not-Dean boy in his arms opens those swollen wet lips and moans, and Sam just has to cover them with his own. Then he has to suck at them, soft and then harder, and then he has to pull the bottom one into his mouth and bite down until he tastes copper, and the boy is writhing and gasping against him, the other one pulled back and just watching with no sound but a breathed _oh jesus christ_.  
  
Sam thinks about demon blood. There really isn’t even all that much of a difference.  
  
“Okay,” he says. He gets the boy’s fly open and reaches in, shoves his briefs out of the way and palms hot, silky cock, already wet at the tip. Wet for him. Sam looks at the other one and smiles as his hand starts jerking. “Here’s how this is going to go. You’re gonna fuck me.” The other one lets out a rough, broken sound, reaching down and palming himself through his jeans in stuttering movements. “While I fuck him.”  
  
The one he's picked out to act as his dildo tries to help him strip the one he's already starting thinking of as Dean; he doesn't want that, and he brushes the extra hands irritably away. He wants this one all to himself, pupils blown wide and body loose and pliant under his hands. “Strip,” Sam orders, and then—more as a concession to the guy than anything else, because he'll like it if he feels more included—“Play with yourself while I take care of him.” He shoots the guy a carefully sculpted smile. “Watch us.”  
  
Juggling people's egos is so goddamn tiresome.  
  
But not-Dean's shirt comes off so prettily, all that delicious skin coming into view like unwrapping a present, and he doesn't have to think about the extraneous party here as he bends the boy back over his thigh and bites gently at his throat, raking the blunt nails of one hand down his chest and ribs and leaving red stripes behind. The boy gasps and arches. Sam grins against overheated skin.  
 _  
You want this, Dean. You want it because I want it.  
  
I'm going to make it very simple for you._  
  
Somewhere Dean might be helping pretty Lisa clean up the kitchen. He might be following her up the stairs of their perfect little house. He might be undressing her slowly, tenderly, and he might be _making love_ to her in their big soft bed. There might be candles.  
  
And here, a boy with a close-enough approximation to Dean's eyes and Dean's muscles and Dean's lips is letting himself be stripped bare by Sam's big hands, splayed out on a motel bed like a cheap coked-up whore and moaning _please... please..._ And this is better because like this he’s also nothing like Dean. He’s nothing special. He’s nothing precious. He’s certainly nothing irreplaceable.  
  
He’s spreading his thighs and whining as Sam slides his lips down around the boy’s slick cock.  
  
Sam likes giving pleasure in a kind of abstract way--giving someone pleasure makes it twice as likely that later they’ll be even more eager to give him pleasure of his own. But he also likes the power. He can make this gorgeous creature twitch and writhe and grope at his shoulders; he can bring on sobs of need and disappointment when he withdraws his mouth entirely. He can cause stronger sobs of relief when he licks his slow way down the shaft and pulls the heavy balls one at a time into his mouth. He can do these things. He can do it all. There’s nothing stopping him now but prudence.  
  
Which is why this isn’t actually Dean coming apart under his fingers and tongue.  
  
He lifts his head. The other one is completely stripped, his hand working between his legs and his eyes and lips both damp and wide. Sam looks at his mouth and makes a call, shifting further onto his side.  
  
“Come here and suck me.”  
  
And--Oh. Oh, this is nice. Making the most of a cock in his mouth is a little trickier when his own is being sucked so deep and so well, but it’s nice. He makes do. He palms the other’s head and rolls his hips, fucking his mouth in a shallow rhythm.  
 _  
Dean._  
  
He thinks about kidnapping his brother sometimes, somehow brainwashing him so all that’s left is the ability to hunt and a burning desire for Sam’s cock in his ass. And that could be all there would be--hunting, killing, fucking, then hunting some more. No angst. No regrets. Fresh from the kill, still buzzing with adrenaline and tasting mouth-bitten blood, shoving Dean onto his hands and knees in the dirt and fucking him too dry and too hard until he’s screaming, torn and bleeding, and never, ever wanting it to stop because that’s how fucking much he should want Sam.  
  
If things were as simple as they should be.  
  
 _Fuck,_ he’s getting too close to coming. He swats at the head between his legs and not-Dean’s cock pops free of his mouth with a wet sound. The other one--and really, he doesn’t even resemble Dean enough anymore to earn his own name in Sam’s head but he’ll still do well enough as a living sex toy--rocks back on his ass, one hand lifted to his glistening mouth with surprise and an edge of hurt in his green eyes.  
  
Sam really doesn’t have the patience.  
  
“I want you in my ass,” he explains, already dragging not-Dean up onto his knees, spitting into his hand and reaching down into the cleft of that tight ass. The boy in his arms gasps when Sam’s finger circles his asshole and nudges inside, and then he’s going limp, loose as he’s been this whole time, lolling back against Sam’s chest with a rough groan as Sam fucks him with one finger and then two.  
  
And the other is just watching this scene with his mouth open and a stupid fucking deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. Sam stares at him over not-Dean’s shoulder. “There a problem?”  
  
“I.” The other one swallows. He seems to be trying to look everywhere at once. “You got condoms? Lube?”  
  
“I don’t have anything you could catch,” Sam says. “And I won’t catch anything you have.” He has no idea if this is true, if everything he's been through has conferred that kind of protection, but he also doesn’t care. He bends his head and scrapes his teeth down the line of not-Dean’s quivering throat. “And spit is fine. I don’t need lube.”  
 _  
Neither does he._  
  
He’s spitting into his hand again, slicking his fingers a little more and going at the limp, moaning thing in his arms with three fingers just as he feels two slippery digits pushing into him. For a moment he pauses in the act of finger-fucking this boy who is not and never will be Dean--and isn’t it strange that now he’s thinking of his big brother as a _boy_ but really, Dean is, isn’t he?--and feels himself stretching to accommodate the invasion, the low burn of it, his eyes closed and his breath coming deep and even.  
  
His body is as much an engine for his pleasure as anyone else’s. And it’ll obey him. He feels himself relaxing. Opening up.  
  
All the lights in the room are on. He had wanted to see things. Now he feels a little like he’s seeing too much.  
  
“Do it,” he breathes, and he bends the boy over in front of him; the curving ass under his hands rises eagerly to meet him, slutty, whorish, and he thinks about Dean, about how if he gave in and went straight for all the fucking complications, at first Dean might pretend that he doesn’t want it until Sam shows him just how much he really does.  
  
Dean was in Hell. Dean was never in the Cage. And Sam doesn’t remember much from down there, but he thinks he might remember a thing or two about the fine art of corruption.  
  
Except he’s not going to. Because that would be complicated. And Sam likes things simple.  
  
The boy under him cries out when Sam thrusts into him. Sam catches glimpses of an arching back glistening with sweat, white knuckles in the sheets as the body he’s violating struggles to adjust to him, and then he’s being shoved forward by the cock pushing into his own ass, not massive but big enough to force his eyes closed and a hard sound against the back of his throat. He’s held between them, fucked and fucking, allowing himself a single violent shudder of pleasure.  
  
He slams the flat of his hand against the boy’s ass as he rocks forward and grins as he gets another cry. “C’mon,” he says, and he still sounds conversational, as if this is still in the planning stages, as if he hasn’t really done anything yet.  
  
Because he hasn’t. Because this is not really Dean.  
  
“Told you to fuck me. Plow my ass, already.”  
  
He hits the boy again as his body’s rocked, and again, timing it with each thrust, hard enough and fast enough that soon the skin under his hand is flushed and angry red and the sounds that not-Dean is making are more pained than anything else. But he’s not struggling--he’s too high or Sam is just too big and too strong and has too good a grip--and the dick driving into his ass is propelling him toward the edge.  
  
And now it just kind of feels like something he’d like to be over soon. He’s with them, in one of them and with one of them in him, but he doesn’t feel close to either of them.  
  
Sam is getting bored.  
  
He could let Dean tie him up, he thinks suddenly, almost as if from nowhere. He could climb up on a rack, give Dean some tools, tell him to go to town. Watch as Dean takes him apart piece by piece, skin and muscle and bone and blood, cutting into him just-so. Because Dean wouldn’t kill him, because Dean knows just how far is far enough without going quite that far. Because maybe Dean could crack his ribcage, slice through his lungs and examine his heart and tell Sam just why in the hell he could possibly be so goddamn _bored_ fucking and being fucked by two men who bear more than a passing resemblance to his own brother.  
  
Because maybe Dean could tell him what’s missing inside him.  
  
But that wouldn’t be simple.  
  
And oh, look at that. He’s coming.  
  
It feels distant, unimportant. He wrenches, tightens his hands on the boy’s hips so hard he knows there’ll be bruises and doesn’t care, thrusts deep one final time and lets go. He feels the other one coming at the same time--mystical, mythical simultaneous orgasm. _Huh._ He doesn’t wait for the one inside him to pull out; he’s shoving not-Dean away from him, pulling away from the two of them, curled at the edge of the bed and breathing hard.  
  
He doesn’t care if the boy has come or not. If so, great. If not, it’s not really his problem.  
  
“Get him dressed,” he says. “And both of you get out.” For some reason he doesn’t want to look at either of them. His cock is softening and sticky with his own come; he can feel something else warm trickling down the back of his thigh. He wants a shower.  
  
He never kissed either of them. Not really.  
  
He hears them behind him, hears the other one--the more sober of the two--muttering darkly and shoving the boy around. _Asshole,_ he hears, more than once, and reacts with no more than an internal shrug.  
  
Because it’s true.  
  
The motel door slams shut and he’s alone. Only then does he uncurl, uncoil, move heavily to the shower and cut it on as hot as he can make it. Hot as fucking Hell.  
  
Dean in the shower. Not fucking, not being fucked. This isn’t a fantasy; this is just a memory. Dean in the shower, singing loud and off-key, soapy water running in streams down the curve of his spine. Glancing back over his slick shoulder. Sardonic smile. _Got a good grip on the soap, Sammy, sorry to disappoint. Seriously, the fuck you want?_  
  
Sam stands under the spray, watches the water circle the drain and vanish. He stands there until the room is choked with steam and his hands have wrinkles on top of wrinkles. He stands there until he forgets why he’s there at all.  
  
Nothing about this was ever simple.

 


End file.
